


now your heart is in my hands, I won't give it up

by davidbrewer



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Anxiety, David Rose Loves Patrick Brewer, David Rose is a Nice Person, David does not have a monopoly on relationship insecurities!, Established Relationship, Facing a Fear, Insecurity, M/M, Not Beta Read, Patrick Can Get Anxious Too, Post-Canon, Schitt Happens Bingo, The Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-27 02:02:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30115473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/davidbrewer/pseuds/davidbrewer
Summary: Patrick speaks in facts and figures. He aced statistics in college. He lives and breathes spreadsheets — shit, he could set up an Excel formula with his eyes closed, if you asked. It’s just… who he is. Sometimes, when nothing else makes sense, he can fall back on what he knows is always true. In life, there will never be just one solution, but with math? He’ll always find the answer he’s looking for. Always.And, right now, he’s… Yeah, he’s feeling a little nauseous.Because the math isn’t in their favor.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 31
Kudos: 265
Collections: Schitt Happens Bingo





	now your heart is in my hands, I won't give it up

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Januarium](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Januarium/gifts), [agoodpersonrose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/agoodpersonrose/gifts).



> This all started because of an episode of Bar Rescue. They dropped a statistic at the beginning of an episode and... Well, my brain drifted off to the boys. My first instinct was to do this earlier in the relationship and have David be the one whose insecurities are triggered, but then a couple pals (shout out to Jan and Becca) gave me the warm fuzzies about _David_ being the one to have "supreme confidence in their relationship."
> 
> So... post-canon optimist David, here we come...
> 
> Title from "Temporary Love" by Ben Platt.

Patrick is attempting their regularly-scheduled count for the fifth time in a row.

$ _80, $81, $82 —_ fuck, wait. He grimaces as he stares at the cash in his hands. Did he skip the 70s? He doesn’t remember counting through the 70s… Patrick groans before he gives up, dropping the cash back into the register, and dropping his face into his hands.

He just can’t think straight this morning. 

Since they opened, just over two hours ago, he’s helped several customers, brought the seasonal candles out from the back, and restocked the lip-balms… but it hasn’t been enough to distract him from what the radio hosts were talking about as he pulled up to the store. Or, well, part of it: 

“ _So, what do you guys think about this: I saw an article yesterday and, according to a recent study, or whatever, entrepreneurs have the highest divorce rate out of , like, any other bracket? Yeah, 82 percent of couples who run a business together actually end up divorced within a few years. What do you think? Does that sound a little high to you?”_

“A little high?” he’d asked his radio. It’s astronomical.

82 percent of couples who run a business together… end in divorce. 

And it’s just a radio talk show. It really shouldn’t bother him.

After two blissful years of marriage, some stupid Elmdale NPR-wannabe discussion shouldn’t get under Patrick’s skin.

But it does. 

It burrows beneath Patrick’s skin and puts down roots — _roots_ that stretch long enough to wrap around his heart like a boa constrictor. And, as if that isn’t enough, those roots sprout little twigs of ‘ _what if,’_ which grow intobranches that soar out of Patrick’s reach. It doesn’t just get under his skin. It consumes him, until it’s the only thought on his mind. 82 percent.

Patrick thinks… _that can’t be right_ , so he pulls out his phone, opens his browser, and types a search into Google. In bold lettering, the statistic stares back at him:

82 percent of marriages like theirs fail.

82 percent. _Eighty-fucking-two percent._

That’s only — he does some quick math in his head — fuck, an _18 percent_ success rate. Statistically, he and David had an 18 percent chance of survival, and an 82 percent _likelihood_ they’ll end up divorced. 

Those are terrible odds, and Patrick knows that because he’s _a numbers guy._

Patrick speaks in facts and figures. He _aced_ statistics in college. He lives and breathes spreadsheets — shit, he could set up an Excel formula _with his eyes closed,_ if you asked _._ It’s just… who he is. Sometimes, when nothing else makes sense, he can fall back on what he knows is always true. In life, there will never be just one solution, but with math? He’ll always find the answer he’s looking for. Always.

And, right now, he’s… Yeah, he’s feeling a little nauseous. 

Because the math isn’t in their favor.

So, he starts thinking about it the way he’d think about their business, and that makes it so much fucking worse. Because, if there were an _82 percent chance_ a product would flop, they… wouldn’t carry it; stocking a doomed product like that would be considered a risky business move. In simpler terms, it’d be fucking stupid. 

Has he been _fucking stupid?_

Patrick turns back to his phone and reads an article — one that lists reasons like neglect, financial strain, poor communication and “divergent business goals” for the high divorce rate — then, he reads another, which talks about ‘protecting your business’ in a divorce. He winds up spiraling down the rabbit hole of Google, and he has to _force_ himself to shove his phone back in his pocket again.

He knows David loves him — and of course, _of course_ , he loves David, but what if it’s not enough? He’s heard people talk about that before. _Love isn’t always enough._ What if they start to argue all the time, like his neighbors back at home?

It’ll start with disagreements about the store, but next thing they know, they’ll be picking fights about the house, about their individual little ticks, and expenses, and Patrick accidentally throwing one of David’s ‘hand-wash only’ items into the machine… So then he’ll sleep in the spare bedroom several nights a week because David’s just so mad at him all the time, or maybe _he’ll_ be mad at _David_ all the time and it’ll just fester because he’s terrible at expressing his feelings… and everything is just a mess until it all fucking implodes and…

God, what if they can’t do this?

He feels the anxiety building, squeezing his heart until his chest physically hurts. What does he do? He has to do _something,_ right? He can’t let his marriage fall apart.

So… does he need to leave the store? He can’t do that.

Actually, no! No, technically… he _can._

He _can_ relinquish his ownership — he can just be _the owner’s husband_. After all, David is more than capable of handling the store by himself; Patrick has every faith in him. If he did that, would their chances shoot back down to… whatever the average divorce rate is for normal couples? 20%? It’s something like that. It’s reasonable.

Patrick is pulling his phone back out to find the correct statistic when the bell rings. David strolls in, beautiful as ever, and sets a cardboard carrier with their usual morning drinks on the counter. This morning, he’s also balancing a little paper bag, which is probably packed with a pastry or two.

And, god, Patrick’s heart strains against the grip of his worry at the sight of David’s smile, paired with a cheerful trill of, “Hi, honey.” 

It’s the kind of greeting that only happens when David doesn’t get out of bed before ten; Patrick opens most mornings, just for that reason.

Just for _this._

Patrick says, “Good morning,” though his thoughts are miles away.

But David doesn’t seem to notice. He lifts one cup and sets it in front of Patrick before plucking his own coffee from the caddy and taking a sip.

“Twyla was out of English Breakfast,” he says, “so I got you Earl Grey. The box had the four little, like, _coffee cup thingies_ colored in, so it’s caffeinated or whatever… _and,_ ” — he reaches into the bag to produce two muffins, one chocolate chip and one banana nut — “she only had one more of your gross old-man muffins, so I brought you one, even though they're _repulsive_.” He makes a face, setting his cup back on the counter to pull the wrapper from his own muffin. “I actually almost made Twyla put it in a separate bag because I didn’t want it contaminating my chocolate.”

The smile on David’s face gives Patrick the impression that he ate one back at the cafe already — for his husband, there’s a very special kind of joy that only comes with baked goods. And Patrick should _thank_ him. He should thank him for the tea, and for the muffin, and for walking in here looking as good as he does. But, instead of saying _any_ of that, Patrick blurts:

“I think I should stop working at the store.”

David, unfortunately, had just stuffed a piece of his muffin in his mouth, so his, “I’m sorry?” is muffled. He rubs his hands together to shake off any lingering crumbs.

“I think I should stop working at the store,” Patrick repeats, grimacing. “I mean, we’re both here _all the time_ and I… don’t really know if that’s a good thing.”

For just a moment, David looks hurt. Patrick sees a flash of the man that he met all those years ago, who’d never kissed someone he ‘ _respected, or thought was nice,’_ — the same David who’d believed he was impossible to love.

“Okay,” he says, slowly, swallowing. “Are you… saying you’re spending too much time with me?” His voice lilts on the last few words, and he’s trying not to sound hurt. Patrick knows that because he knows _him_ , and it just guts him to know _he did that._

He regrets it immediately — mostly because he doesn’t even mean it! They have plenty of space. David, especially, likes to take some time to himself every day to read or catch up on tv (lately, he’s been sketching again too); he’s an introvert, which means he needs to recharge. Patrick learned that very early on in their relationship. 

Also, _he_ goes out with the local baseball league often enough, while David hangs out with Stevie when she’s in town, and disappears to FaceTime with Alexis at least once a week. So, it’s _not_ as if they’re together all the time. It’s _not_ as if they don’t have their own lives. Patrick doesn’t even know why he said that. 

Except, he does. The pull in his chest won’t let him forget.

He says, “No,” a little too forcefully. “No. No, it’s not that, it’s… me.”

David blinks, clearly astounded. “Mmkay, did you just pull a ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ on your husband of two years?” He wags his finger in lieu of normal air quotes.

Fuck. Patrick is doing this all wrong. Why is he so hung up on that stupid number? 

18 percent. Just 18 percent.

Something must show on his face because David walks around the counter to join him beside the till. His hands fall to squeeze Patrick’s shoulders, as some of the hurt falls away to make room for concern. “What’s wrong, honey?” he tries.

Patrick heaves a sigh. “It’s stupid.”

“Um, hello — king of overreaction… like, right here.” David pulls his hands away from Patrick’s shoulder to gesture to himself. “I’ve _perfected_ the tailspin by now.”

Patrick smiles a bit at David’s reaction, but then he’s letting out a sigh. “It’s just something I heard on the radio.”

David gives him a look, and Patrick pouts (though he’ll never admit that’s what his face is doing). So, he surrenders.

“Did you know that 82 percent of married couples who own a business together get divorced?”

David stares at him, clearly not expecting _that_ to come out of his mouth _._

“Mm, well, yes, actually. I looked it up _ages ago,_ but that was before we even got engaged. That was a fun ledge for Stevie to talk me off of, I’m sure.” He frowns. “Wait, is that what this is about? You’re not _worried_ about that, are you?”

Patrick huffs. “Well, they were talking about some recent study about entrepreneurs, so I was interested for a minute, but then they just suddenly dropped that statistic,” — he hears the indignation in his voice — “and you know me and statistics. They’re _kind of my thing_.” 

He sees David pull his lips into his mouth and knows what that means. He’s trying not to smile, ugh. 

“Yes, I know, but… That means that, like, 28 percent succeed,” he says. “That’s so _many_ , Patrick.”

“It’s eighteen.”

David throws his hands up. “Okay, that’s _basically_ the same thing.”

“Is it, though?” Patrick can’t help it. One corner of his lips tug up into a smirk.

David gives him a crooked smile. “Well, that’s why you do the books.” He pokes Patrick’s chest, as if that proves his entire point. “See? I need you.”

Fuck, and Patrick can’t help the way that unleashes a swarm of butterflies — is it _called_ a swarm? — in his stomach. Heat rushes to his face.

David’s hands move slowly up and down Patrick’s arms, soothing and soft. “We’re not those other couples,” he says. “Those people? They don’t know us. They don’t know _anything_ about us, or what we have. And what we have is _good._ It’s _really_ good.”

“But what if we start disagreeing about the store and it messes things up for _us_?”

“Like we've never disagreed about something for the store before?” David raises a single brow and folds his arms over his chest. “I definitely recall _several_ disagreements about lip balm and plunger placement.” 

He sighs. “But, David, that wasn’t serious — we were just—”

But his husband isn’t having it. “Patrick, if we didn’t work well together — if _this_ didn’t work — it would’ve come out _years_ ago.”

David has a point, and Patrick isn’t sure about how he feels being on _this_ side of a spiral. He hasn’t felt this out of control since… Well, since David invited his parents to a surprise party for his birthday. He wasn’t even this nervous on their wedding day.

“And, um,” David continues, “if you try to use this against me later, I will vehemently deny I ever said it, but… I _like_ that we’re different.”

“You do?”

“We make a good team _because_ we disagree.” David’s hands find their home on his shoulders. “You make sure we don’t, like, financially run into the ground, and _I_ make sure you don’t turn this place into a pint-sized Wal-Mart.” Patrick makes a scoff-like sound, but David just runs his hands down Patrick’s arms to take his hands. “We’re solid, honey. And I don’t just mean as business partners.”

“You’re really not worried?”

David nods. “I’m really not worried.” He leans in to kiss Patrick’s forehead, then pulls him into his chest with a soft, “C’mere.” Patrick wraps his arms around his husband easily, _naturally,_ fitting into the space like the universe created it just for him _._

Pressed against David’s chest, Patrick feels lighter. David rubs his back.

He’s immediately hit with a wave of fondness for his husband… and, honestly? A bit of pride, too. David said himself that he’d looked up the statistic before they’d even gotten engaged — he was _not_ always so resolute in his faith in them… or, more accurately, faith in himself.

 _My truth is that I’m damaged goods, and this has really messed things up for me_. 

A few years ago, Patrick thinks, this conversation could’ve gone much differently. Now, David is so unwavering in his confidence in them. He’s reassuring _Patrick,_ and promising that nothing’s going to ‘mess things up for them’ again _._

_Patrick Brewer, you are my happy ending._

After a moment, David pulls back to put his hands on either side of Patrick’s face. 

“Are we okay?” he asks. “You’re not gonna leave me in charge of any math, right?”

“No.” Patrick smiles. “You made everything okay.”


End file.
